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.“Hola! Bienvenue! Come in, come in.”A small wiry monk opened the door and greeted the weary pilgrims excitedly.“I am Brother Bernardo.I have welcome to give for you and food also, if you follow me, you must be starved!”He led them across a high-ceilinged, stone-flagged hallway lit only by spluttering candles set into niches in the uneven walls.Padraig stopped and sniffed the air curiously.The monastery smells reminded him of Sister Immaculata; camphor and candle wax and old age.He’d really missed Sister Immaculata; she was one of the few things he did miss about St Joseph’s.“Come on, Padraig, pick your feet up,” Father Daley called out, and Padraig hurried to catch up.Brother Bernardo showed them into the refectory and soon they were seated at one of several large scrubbed wooden tables.Brother Bernardo brought them earthenware jugs of wine and water, fresh bread and black-rinded cheese; large oddly shaped tomatoes and slivers of red onions.He set before them a bowl of sweet grapes and furry-skinned peaches.As Padraig ate hungrily he looked round the room with interest.There were large paintings hung on the walls and not the sort you’d expect in a monastery.There were big colourful canvases similar to the ones Mr Leary had in the schoolhouse back in Ballygurry, only these looked like they’d been done by a child.There were also sketches of faces done in charcoal, and half-naked bodies of men and women.It was difficult to get a really good look in the candlelight but in the morning he’d look at them properly.The pilgrims ate their feast hungrily and even Miss Carmichael drank two glasses of red wine.Padraig noticed that within minutes it had brought the blood to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes.She was getting more like a human being by the day.Brother Bernardo spoke good English and he seemed happy to practise it on them.“You,” said the smiling brother, “are first pilgrim in many year.We welcome very well and hopes you tells everyone this is good place to stay.Then maybe we make lots of money and don’t have to close, eh?”The pilgrims nodded in agreement.“Why would you have to close, Brother?” asked Father Daley.“Not many monks left now, most very old and Santa Eulalia is not owned by us, belongs to an old lady, Isabella Martinez.The monastery now it needs many repairs and is not self-sufficient any more.When the old lady dies, who knows what will happen to us?”“That’s awful sad,” said Padraig.“I think ifs just real lovely here.”“I understand that you know Michael Leary?” Brother Bernardo enquired.“Indeed,” Father Daley replied.“He’s Padraig’s teacher.”“He was very good friend with Brother Francisco but today Francisco has gone with a man to hear confession of our benefactor, a very sick woman.She’s a distant relation of Brother Francisco.When she dies that could be it for us here.”“Carlos Emanuel came here yesterday to collect Brother Francisco, didn’t he?”“Yes, funny little man.Very impatients.Can’t wait minutes but wants to be gone.”“Mr Leary got shot when he was staying here, didn’t he?” Padraig asked eagerly.Brother Bernardo looked nonplussed.“An old monk thought he was a pig and shot him…”“Oh, si, Brother Anselm.Big hunter in his day.He very eccentric.Bad shot with gun but he don’t use one no more.Too old now, thank the good Lord.”Then he rattled on in excited Spanish and Padraig and Nancy had to wait patiently for Father Daley to translate.“He says that Michael Leary was here for quite a while at the end of the war.He was a great help to the monks.A comical chap, always on the look-out for some lost statue.Brother Anselm thinks he was a bit strange in the head.He used to drive Brother Anselm mad with all his questions about the statue.”“That’s because one of the monks who lost the statue was his ancestor and he wants to find out all about it,” said Padraig.Brother Bernardo went on to tell them that Michael Leary had just left when the other Englishman came.“Rosendo, a man who lives down in the hamlet, found him and brought him here.He was a young man who had been wounded in the fighting down south; he was trying to cross back into France and make his way home.He’s buried here, the poor man, down in the graveyard.The monks wrote to his family but no one ever wrote back or came to see the grave.He was from same country as you.”“What was he called?” Father Daley asked even though it was hardly likely that they would know the man.“George.Let me think, that’s it George Fitzallen.”Nancy Carmichael drew in her breath and turned quite white.“Are you all right?” said Padraig with concern.“Yes, yes, I just swallowed my wine too fast, that’s all.”It seemed to Nancy that she could never be free from the damned Fitzallen family; why even here in the middle of nowhere she couldn’t escape them.Although Nancy seemed to lose her appetite at that point, Padraig and Father Daley ate their fill.Brother Bernardo led them back through the flickering hallway, up a steep winding staircase and along a narrow corridor.The monk carried a candelabrum and the shadows of the pilgrims writhed eerily along the whitewashed walls.Padraig had the horrible feeling that someone was behind him; a frisson of fear caught him between his shoulder blades.Turning his head slowly he saw the lurking shadow, a bent-backed thing close to the top of the stairway.There one minute and gone the next.Padraig shook his head, rubbed his tired eyes and yawned.Then as they passed an open doorway he caught sight of an old monk lying prostrate on a bed.Padraig stopped and peered nervously into the room.The monk lay as still as a stone bishop on a cathedral tomb.His bony hands were clasped across his sunken chest, his head raised up on a pillow.His eyes were closed, his bloodless lips collapsed in a pallid grimace.His skin was the colour of translucent ochre and violet thread veins lay beneath the surface like contour lines on a map.The skeletal bones of his skull looked as if they were about to break through the taut skin at any moment.Padraig stared at him in horrified fascination.This must be Brother Anselm, the man he’d seen in the photograph in Mr Leary’s scrapbook.The big beaky nose was a dead giveaway.At that moment the old monk opened his eyes and looked across at Padraig.Padraig flinched under his gaze.The monk blinked lizard-like and his mouth twisted into a ravaged, almost toothless smile.For a second he struggled to sit up but then collapsed back on to the pillows.Padraig shivered violently; fear seeped up from his feet, rattled on up his backbone.“Come on, Padraig, keep up,” Nancy Carmichael called out to him.Padraig turned his face away from the old man and hurried towards the others, who stood waiting for him in an oasis of candlelight further down the corridor.Father Daley climbed thankfully into his own bed and blew out the candle on the bedside table.He pulled the freshly starched sheets up over him and lay for a while looking up at the huge moon through the opened shutters.Padraig, in his bed on the opposite side of the room, was already curled up in a ball, dead to the world and snoring softly.Father Daley yawned; he was absolutely exhausted what with the journey and all the commotion at Señora Hipola’s that morning.The weather had changed quite suddenly during the previous night and the storm had blown into Camiga without any warning [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]